Running with Scissors
by Blue eyed fantasies
Summary: There were names for what he did - runner, dealer, rose. Yet it was all quite simple : take the bag from A to B. Collect the money. Repeat. There were only three rules, he'd been told from day 1: Don't get attached. Don't look in the bag. Don't get caught. Kurt Hummel's about to break these rules. Why? Blaine Anderson of course.


**Hi.**

**This idea won't leave me alone so I just had to publish it. More info. to follow.**

**I don't own glee.**

* * *

It started out quite simple really; just 2 boys running carefree through a field of daisies, the summer wind sighing gently in their ears, hands grasped tightly between them and a thrill rushing through their veins. They could do anything, be anyone. Perfection. And the best part of all: not a colour in sight to taint their skin, just golden sunshine.

Maybe that should have been Kurt's first indication that this was all a dream.

And even in dreams, things can go wrong.

"Mommy! Look, I made a new friend! His name's..."

But Anita didn't see her little boy's smile - a crescent taken straight from the moon - and hazel eyes as wide as saucers in excitement. No, she saw colours. Red, to be specific.

Her eyes widened in disgust. "Honey, come over here," she commanded in a clipped tone.

"What? Why..."

"We're going home, that's why." Tears pooled in the brown eyes.

"But what about..."

"I don't think you should play with him anymore."

That bit wasn't a dream: Anita marching her son away with a cold set of her jaw, effectively severing their 2 minute friendship with one small click of her heels. The 2 minute friendship had been the best of Kurt Hummel's life though and he would find his best friend if it killed him. The cruel trick was that he could remember the mother, just not the son. _Remember, rember._ And that he actually needed to find him.

* * *

"Wake up ladyface!" Someone was screaming through Kurt Hummel's thin door in a very unpleasant way, effectively scattering the remnants of Kurt's dream - something about hazel eyes and grass. Odd.

He gathered the blankets around his head like a cocoon. The person on the other side of the door was now hammering it with what seemed to be fists and heavy duty military boots. Santana. Quinn never wore military boots when she woke him up. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, being woken up like this. He couldn't actually remember what his alarm clock sounded like or if he had one, for that matter. Someone had probably robbed it by now.

"Mmf. Go back t' hell Satan. Wanna go back to sleep."

"You _still_ weighed down by those pear hips of yours Hummel? Do I need to get in there and winch you up with a crane because I fucking well will.

"Aww you would help me get up?" Kurt replied sarcastically. "What's next, breakfast in bed with the bacon and eggs arranged in a smiley face?"

"Get up Hummel!" Santana snarled. "Before I do winch you up - by the neck." And with that she sharply opened the door, breaking the flimsy chain acting as a lock as if it were dental floss and striding in.

She flung the covers off of Kurt to which he let out a few weak protests but he got up quickly. He knew, like many others, that Santana kept rope in her underwear drawer along with other things. And it wasn't a 'just in case' rope, it was an 'these stains aren't ketchup' rope.

Santana strode over to the curtains, flinging them open. The sunlight filtered weakly through the paint smeared windows. "Ah! My eyes!" Kurt shrieked. "Shut them!"

The annoying girl smirked knowingly before plonking down on the bed. "Rough night?" she enauired.

She didn't get an answer though because Kurt was already stumbling over to the bathroom down the hall in search of some desperately needed Advil. He came back in a few minutes later with a half empty glass of water. "Where was it this time?" Santana already knew the answer.

"Scandals," Kurt mumbled and she rolled her eyes.

"So predictable." She sighed as she inspected her nails which she'd been filing with the smaller of the two knives she kept in her hair. Kurt had tried telling her to use a proper nail file for years but she never listened. "Who was it?" She asked nonchalantly, blowing on her nails.

Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think it was a Robbie? Or maybe a Robert." He shrugged. "They all look the same at that bar - bulky, closeted...gay."

"Flannel?" asked Santana.

Kurt winced and nodded. "I think so."

The Latino girl tutted. "Your standards are dropping Hummel. Say no to the flannel. Next minute it'll be a Roberta."

"Ew. Gross." Kurt wrinkled his nose and started to apply some sort of cream to his cheeks.

"We need to find us some pretty people so we can get our mac on." Santana said before flopping back on Kurt's bed.

Kurt barked out a laugh. "Good luck doing that with _this_." He angrily fisted a bunch of his hair, streaked a dull red amongst the chestnut brown. It wasn't a personal choice. _God_ no, the red clashed with his eyes. It was an identity mechanism, a way for the higher-ups to mark what's theirs. Everyone knew that. Even if you didn't venture out onto the deadly streets of New York at night you knew what the colours meant: gangs. And with gangs came trouble.

No-one in the high-end bars wanted to associate with a gang member, particularly not a runner like Kurt. It was only in dingy little places like Scandals where you even got through the door and, if you're pretty, people might look past the red for one night.

Kurt sighed. The dye was fading. It used to be a vibrant red but now it was almost a coppery ginger. He was surprised one of the chiefs hadn't told him to re-dye it. The pale boy tilted his head. In a certain light, if he closed one eye...he could almost pass as being normal, unmarked. He shook his head. No, there would always be those faint scars, unseen to the eye, deep within.

He started styling his hair slowly and carefully until it was _almost_ perfectly coiffed. Then he applied a heavy cloud of hairspray. Santana coughed. "I don't know why you bother. Everyone looks like shit in this place."

"Including you?" Kurt retorted.

Santana snorted. "As if I'm in the same category as _everybody_ Hummel." Despite the comment, it lacked its usual confidence. Santana's insults had started losing their venom and wit recently. Where the years made Kurt more bitter and tougher, they made Santana weaker, more vulnerable. Maybe that was why they ended up here.

Kurt acquiesced. "Turn around," he ordered. "I'm getting changed."

Santana rolled her eyes. "What? Are you afraid I'll jump you?" Kurt gave her a pointed look. "As if there's much to see Hummel," she grumbled but she swivelled round impatiently, now occupying herself with the task of sharpening the knife that she kept in her boot.

Kurt hated to think that Santana was right...but she was. As he pulled his pyjama top over his head, he caught a glimpse of his chest and stomach in the slightly grimy mirror hanging next to the bed. Skinny, he was skinny like a chicken. Always had been. If he were to look closer like he used to, he would also see how gaunt and stretched his face looked, his eyes sunken in pits of purple and faded to a murky grey. Then again, Kurt didn't look in mirrors anymore, afraid of what he might find. Years of living on the edge had...put him on the edge. Kurt supposed he should be worried, but then again he'd stopped doing that too.

Santana and Kurt had been outed in senior year by Jacob Ben Israel for a couple of minutes of glory. The school had instantly turned into a shark pit with the two gays as the only prey. It's funny what slurs and violence and abuse can do to people. They quit the glee club, sick of their false encouragements and gospel songs sang to make them feel better about themselves. Neither spoke about religion and both were dead set atheists. Hate tends to do that to a person, twist and warp your beliefs in everything until it shatters and you have no faith whatsoever.

Quinn Fabray soon joined them, having given up her baby to a woman she'd never met so that she could return to her polyester cheerleading uniform and chastity club. She claimed it was the worst mistake of her life right before she broke the cross around her neck and tossed it in the dumpster. Kurt and Santana had wordlessly accepted her.

Together they formed the rejected group of the school and eventually decided they'd had enough of being hated. They decided to become haters. After beating up Jacob Ben Israel and humiliating him in front of the whole school, the three of them ran away to New York, a magical place that supposedly makes all dreams come true (at least, that's what Rachel Berry told them), to sing and dance and be adored. Sadly this doesn't happen when all you have is ten bucks and a shit load of good for nothing dreams. So they'd done the next best thing - or worse, depending the way you look at it. They dyed their hair red and ran. Joined the Roses - a glamorous name for what has got to be the shittiest deal ever.

On Kurt's first day as a gang member 4 people had placed a blade to his neck. 9 had merely threatened his life. When he'd told one of the chiefs they'd laughed in his face. "Count yourself lucky it wasn't a gun," he'd hissed in Kurt's face, the stale cigarette smoke making him gag. "Now either go back to being a little fairy or toughen up kid. You're not in fucking Kansas anymore Dorothy."

"It's Ohio," Kurt spat before he'd immediately invested in a small knife and a steely attitude.

Kurt hadn't been threatened once since.

There were many names for what he did - some nicer than others - runner, messenger, Cheetah, dealer. All of them hit the nail on the head. It was simple really: take the bag from A to B. Collect the money. Repeat. There were only three rules, he'd been told from day 1:

Don't ask questions.

Don't look in the bag.

Don't get caught.

True, Kurt knew that more than half the time the object he was carrying in his black leather messenger bag was some illegal drug of sorts. And it was highly expensive probably, not that Kurt ever saw much of the money the mysterious guys he met in dark shady corners handed to him.

Yeah, It wasn't great money. Plus, it was a very risky job being a runner. You developed a habit of constantly looking behind your back and it comsisted of running through dark, lonely nights on solely caffeine and adrenaline. But it was home and now it was all they knew. Kurt couldn't remember what his hair looked like without the red streaking through it.

It's funny, they never tell you in gym class that running is the best thing in the world (second only to singing and standing on a stage). Kurt wasn't a druggie. He rarely used anything close to the stuff he suspected he was carrying in his bag but if there was anything he was hooked on it was adrenaline. The rush coursing through his veins. The pounding of his fine tuned heart and long legs sprinting across the pavement. Of course, he had to be be addicted to one of the most dangerous professions in the world - if you could call it that. After all, it lead to a life running across an impossibly thin line between life and death, good and bad, waiting for the police or the authorities or the other gangs that he knew were out there to catch him and tear him to shreds.

It was a good thing he was fast.

Once he was changed, he grabbed his duck taped phone from his nightstand, heading for the door.

"Kurt wait," Santana called out. She pressed something into his hand. Kurt knew what it was immediately from the cold metallic bite. "Take it," she said earnestly.

"Santana, in my 3 years of having this stupid thing, I've never had to even whip it out." Kurt held the weapon away from his body.

"Trust me, you will one day and you'll use it. Plus, it'll be when you least expect it." Her eyes were dark and solemn as she curled his reluctant fingers around it. When Kurt still didn't look convicted she added quietly, "It's Big A's orders isn't it?"

Kurt nodded, quickly pocketing it and trying to pretend it wasn't there. After all, no-one messed with Big A. Big A was the big boss. kurt had only seen him twice. He wasn't particularly big but there was something sinister lurking in his eyes sending a message of 'I will kill you if you do anything I don't like'. And he would. And he did. Three guesses as to how the previous boss - Big C - had disappeared without a trace.

Size doesn't matter. It's strength, speed, stealth and smarts. The 4 S's. That's pummelled into you from day one until it rests snugly in your head, leaving an everlasting mark. Like a bullet.

* * *

"What is this shit?" asked Kurt in disgust as he stared despondently at the grey sludge in his bowl.

"It's that stuff they put on the roads - concrete- and maple syrup," Brittany S. Pierce dead-panned (because when does she not deadpan? Kurt thought). He gingerly held up a spoon of the indelible looking mulch. "I don't think I can eat this," he said, looking a little green.

Quinn sighed, used to his theatrics. "If you don't want it, go somewhere else."

"Ooh can we go to Starbucks?" Santana suggested. Kurt perked up considerably.

"Do you have money?" he asked excitedly, already dreaming of a grande non-fat mocha.

Santana snorted. "What do you think Hummel?" Kurt instantly deflated, looking back at his lumpy orange juice (he was sure it had said without bits on the carton...) Santana contined. "We don't need money. We could just..."

Kurt cut in sharply.

"No Santana. You know I don't like stealing."

"You've done worse," the Latino girl replied. Kurt just shook his head sternly. "Fine," she huffed. "But you need to wake up Kurt. In case you haven't noticed in the three fucking yeas we've been stuck here, this isn't Westside story. No-one's going to serenade you on a balcony. We're in the shitty part of town and we do what we have to, to survive. You deal drugs every night even if you don't like to think it. So get off your high unicorn and down on the piss covered ground with the rest of us and stop acting so damn precious like you have a soul full of gold when we all know it's missing like the rest of ours."

Kurt's eyes were wide. "Did you just call me soulless for refusing to steal from Starbucks with you?" he asked.

"No," Santana shook her head. "It's not just Starbucks." She glanced at her phone and she let out a noise of frustration. "My shift's starting. So is yours Quinn. We'd better get going." And with that, they got up and left, leaving their trays for Kurt and Brittany to pick up.

The blonde girl looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think she's mad because we don't have our lady kisses anymore."

Kurt furrowed his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Big A told me not to," she replied, shrugging. "He told me I'm only allowed to kiss him and that I'm not allowed to tell any..." She broke off, her eyes wide. "Kurt, please don't tell anyone."

The brunette was too stunned to reply. He simply nodded. Brittany smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. "That one doesn't count because I know you only like boy kisses." Kurt nodded before collecting their uneaten breakfasts and heading for the door, still trying to comprehend how sweet little Brittany could look into those cold eyes and kiss him. Wouldn't it be like kissing a fish?

"Are you delivering tonight Brit Brit?" Kurt asked when they both started walking in the same direction.

"Yeah, I'm one of the elves tonight," the young girl replied. Kurt smiled sadly, as he always did. Brittany thought, because they delivered things at night, that they were Santa's helpers. It was a dangerously innocent way of looking at something so sinister yet no-one had bothered to correct her. It was often the way with Brittany. She still thought Kurt was a dolphin. Santana liked to encourage it. She had even worn a Santa costume last Christmas Eve to keep up the illusion.

Kurt just worried what would happen when Brittany found out the truth.


End file.
